Match of the Day
by Rose G
Summary: Mickey comes into work with a broken arm earned on the football pitch, leading to a lot of jokes and the challenge of a five-a-side football match between uniform and CID. Old Bill, including Boultan, Beech, Smithy etc. Complete
1. The challenge

Match of the Day

Rose G

Disclaimer – All characters are the property of Thames TV, and I'm making no money from their use

Dedication - To everyone at my football club who hasn't laughed at me breaking my leg ice-skating (about 2 people) Cheers, and up the Aggies!

'Mickey?' The voice was shot through with alarm. 'What happened to your arm?'

The young DC heaved a sign that told Boultan he'd already answered this one a few times. 'I broke the bone. Don't worry; doc's plastered it pretty well. I'm alright.'

'How'd you do it?'

'Playing football. Don't lau-'

Boultan cracked up, laughing so hard that Beech moseyed over to see what the fuss was about. The older DS pushed his long greying hair back from his eyes and peered at Mickey's cast, then smiled warmly at him.

'Leave the kid alone, John. Didn't you ever do something like that?'

Boultan stopped laughing long enough to answer. 'Nope. I was the cause of it in other people. Rugby people.'

'You know, Jonathan that explains so much about you. Leave Mickey alone.' Beech led Boultan away, the pair chatting about dog odds at Wimbledon that evening and whether they'd have time to get up there.

Mickey hung his jacket over the back over the chair then started flicking through one of the files on his desk. The unwieldy cast on his right arm knocked a coffee cup over, drenching his paperwork. 'Bugger!' He grabbed at some of the files but only succeeded in knocking them onto the floor.

'Mickey, out of the way. Please.' Kerry Holmes touched his shoulder to make him move over, then began to sort his desk out. He blushed, embarrassed at needing help and grateful at the same time; feelings compounded when she'd finished mopping up and patted him on the cheek.

'Thanks.' He offered her a grin, then sat down to enjoy the peace of knowing that Meadows and Deakin were in a meeting with Brownlow. It lasted until Rod breezed in.

'Mickey! What happened-'

'To my arm?' He finished Rod's question and answered him. 'Maybe I should just get it typed out and hold it up at the next person who asks. Would that suit?' They all laughed at his idea, but warmly, with more sympathy than jeering.

'What happened in the match, anyway?' That was Rod, his voice kind as he made himself a coffee and brought another one over to Mickey.

'The match? We were three-nil up – I scored the second from a free kick on the edge of the area. Great curling shot, round the keeper you know. About 15 minutes from time, I got tackled; sort of half got back up and kept going forward but faster than my legs were going. I overbalanced, and I heard the arm crack. They subbed me of course, but we still won.'

'They subbed you for a broken arm?' Boultan's voice was scornful. 'I played a rugby match once with concussion; can't remember any of it, but I did.'

'Yeah, well, John, what ain't there don't get hurt.'

'What about that time, then, when that fellow kicked you in the nuts and you didn't realise until after you'd nicked him?'

Beech glowered at Boultan. 'Never mind that. I though I told you to stop baiting him, John?'

'And when'd they make you DI, Donald?'

'Didn't. But I'm older than you.'

'Good job it is age before beauty, eh? Else you'd never boss anyone.'

'It could be worse. I could be ugly and ginger, like you.'

They all fell silent and began to edge away from Mickey's desk as Meadows and Deakin came in. 'Alright, you lot, why does the rest of the office look like a ghost town? Mickey – '

'What happened to my arm?' He groaned so heartfeltly that Kerry answered the DCI for him.

'Oh.' The normally harsh voice softened. 'Are you okay to work, to be here?'

'Course. Can't drive, can't nick anyone but I can still think and do the paperwork.' He tried to lift the files up and knocked the coffee cup over again.

The canteen at lunchtime was just as bad, all the uniform lads mocking him even though Don Beech and Kerry heeled him like over protective sheepdogs, with Kerry carrying his tray for him.

'So, Mickey, your team going to survive without you?'

'Gonna win the bleeding league, Smithy.' He grinned at the sergeant, glad of their friendship that meant that the rank differences could be ignored.

'Yeah, well, we went through to the League cup semis on Saturday, me and my mob. And some-one come up to me, asked me to sign for Rovers; you know, that lot in the next league up to us. Said no cos of the travelling, but he did offer.'

'In exchange for what? A donkey?'

'Have you ever seen me play, Mickey?'

'No, actually. I always play on a Saturday, it's not like I'm some sort of bit part player who can skive off to watch his mates play. And I can't make the evening games. Still, I'm younger than you, so I must be a bit better.'

Don chipped in then. 'Actually, Smithy, I've seen him play and he is pretty useful. Give him a break – he's had John on at him already.'

'Nah. Mickey, when you're fit, I'll get Skipper to call your lot and fix a friendly up; it'll be the end of the season by then. Tenner says we win.' He slapped the note down on the table and Mickey covered it with one of his own.

'Ten says we do. Deal?'

'Why go to all that hassle, Dale? He's CID, you're uniform.' That's two teams already sorted, no hassle about getting permission from the clubs. We can play five-a-side. Easier to arrange the players as well.'

The pair of them stared at Beech, then at each other. They shook hands to seal the deal, grinning as Don added one final proviso. 'Not until Mickey's fit. Fully fit, not fit to be brave and play with it in plaster.'

Don and Mickey walked slowly back to CID, talking almost under their breath. Almost, because Mickey's irritation both at the cast, and the way that Smithy and Don had manoeuvred him into this, was mounting. 'So, Sarge, are you going to organise it all?'

'What, me? You were the one shooting your mouth off, so you can organise it. Shouldn't be that difficult.'

'Sarge, I hope you know.'

'Know what?'

'That my manager wouldn't let me take my level one coaching badge because he didn't think I could do it. You still want me in charge?'

'Oh, sod off. Go chat Kerry up or something.'

Exasperated, Mickey chucked his hands in the air, almost catching Don with the cast and stormed off to the relative peace of the general office.


	2. Scouting

Match of the Day

Rose G

Smithy grinned as his relief sitting in the Canley Arms, partly because he was hoping that one of them would offer him a drink and partly because he was weighing them up in his mind. Eventually, it was Des Taviner who got the hint, carried two pints over and sat down with him.

'Thinking about something, Sarge?'

'Yeah. You heard about Mickey's accident?'

'Some-one said that he broke his arm playing football. Is he okay?'

'Okay enough to be cocky. Him and Don Beech dragooned me into playing a five-a-side match, us versus CID. Fancy playing?'

Des snorted into his lager. 'I'm too old, Sarge.'

'Nah, you're not. Don Beech is playing; he's older than you.'

'Yes, well, he's a DS. He can afford to pay for private treatment afterwards. I can't. I'll come and watch if you want – should be hilarious seeing you lot trying to mark Mickey.'

'Whatever.' Smithy finished his drink and sent Des back to the bar. He thoroughly enjoyed the evening; flirting with some of the prettier women who tried to catch his eye, commiserating with Matt Boyden over the 'marriage' look that had recently entered Vicky Hagen's eyes, and seeing Des sink enough lager to have floated a liner.

'Here, Des, you wanna sign this?'

'Wha'?'

Smithy waved the piece of paper at Des. 'Just overtime stuff. Sign, would you?'

'Uh?'

He shoved the pen into Des's hand and guided it onto the paper. The signature didn't look much like Taviner's, but Taviner didn't look much like himself tonight. He was also, in Smithy's opinion, too drunk now to read the heading that said 'Uniform football team' or note that the other two signatures were Boyden's and Smithy's.

Mickey would have enjoyed the trick as much as Smithy did, but he'd opted to spend the evening at home, too irritated by the cast and the pain to face any company. He soon found, though, that sleeping with a cast on the arm he habitually laid on was nearly impossible and it hurt too much for even videos or CDs to be a distraction. Bored, he finally resorted to texting his mates.

Danny and Duncan both ignored him; Kerry's reply consisted of 'Goodnight, Mickey' and an inquiry about if he knew what the time was. It was only Don who wanted to talk, but his reply was a plea for Mickey to phone, rather than expect Don to waste valuable time fighting with text messaging. It took so long to arrive that Mickey was entirely in agreement.

'Tha' you, Sarge?'

'Don'll do for now, Mickey. How you doing for players?'

'Me. You, I presume. I was going to ask Meadows –someone told me that he used to play in Yorkshire – but every time I got near him, he started fussing. Gave up in the end.'

'Two ain't bad. I'm working on John Boultan, and he _will _play, even though he reckons he hates football. I'll shame him into it, don't worry. I know he says it's a wimp's game, but if I can't manage Boultan by now you can shoot me. And Meadows, I'll get him if you're afraid of him playing mother hen.'

'I don't mind. It's just – embarrassing.' Mickey tried to keep the self pity out of his voice and didn't succeed. 'Who else?'

'We-ll. Danny Glaze is fast, and I mean fast. Don't know if he can play, but I'd sign him up and just let him run at people. And you're gonna need a couple of subs for us old ones.'

'Rod Skase.' Mickey's voice was firm. 'He's a laugh and I'll make sure he gets to boss Boultan around at least once in the match.'

'Fair enough,' Don chuckled.

'Geoff Daly?' Mickey tossed the sergeant's name into the discussion for a joke, was rewarded with Beech spluttering incoherently about 'pen pushers' and threatening to walk out or commit murder; not necessarily in that order.

'Alright, alright, Don! Calm down. Joke.'

'Good. I don't like that bloke.'

'I gathered.'

'Yes. Hey, what are you doing about a keeper?'

'Keeper? Oh, Gawd, I dunno. You don't play in goal, I take it?'

'Nope.' Beech's smile could almost be heard. 'How about Duncan Lennox; he should fill the goal up pretty well?' He was expecting some comment about Scottish keepers, but Mickey only mumbled agreement.

'Sounds like most of a team then.'

'Yeah. But there's no hurry, is there? Not playing until you're fit, so there's plenty of time. I'll give a hand with it tomorrow, if there's anything else that needs sorting.'

Mickey yawned, fatigue rolling over him. His arm hurt, his head hurt and he felt sick and shaky regardless of the fact that the injury had occurred the day before yesterday – two days before, seeing as it was past midnight now.

'You okay, Mickey?' Don's voice was soft. 'I'll come and give you a lift tomorrow if you want.'

'No, thanks. I'll walk – might clear my head.'

'If you're sure. Call me if you want. Goodnight, Mickey.'

'Night.'

'Oh, Mickey…was you telling the truth that your manager wouldn't let you do level one?'

'Yeah. And I know that you only have to turn up to pass. Night.'

Mickey finally feel asleep, dreaming of leading his team out against Smithy's at Upton Park, the crowds screaming his name and the Match of the Day music flooding over the tannoys.

Des winced as Smithy strode in to the briefing room, crashing the door behind him. 'Ah…my head.'

Boyden grinned at him, then winked at Smithy. 'You reckon he remembers what he signed up for last night, Dale?'

''Im?' Smithy's voice dripped condescension at the thought. 'Not a chance.'

Des blinked, run one hand over his shaven head. 'I signed up for something? Oh, shit. Look, you lot, if it's kissing Reggie-babe or something, then you'll have to get him to sign as well.'

'Des?' Smithy was almost rubbing his hands together with delight.

'Yes?'

'What position do you like?'

'He likes it from behind, Sarge!' one of them yelled and the rest was drowned out by wolf – whistles and laughter.

'Tell me I didn't sign up for the five-a-side, Sarge. Bugger, I did, didn't I? That bit of paper…How could you?'

'And? What position?'

'Defence, where all the old crooks play.' Des shook his head, resigned to his fate, as Monroe walked in and clapped his hands for attention.


	3. More scouting

Match of the Day 3

Rose G

**This chapter includes a special reference for those who visited on the old TB forums that no-one else will understand, I'm sure. If Fluffster reads this, I'm sorry.**

Mickey was in a temper when he finally arrived at Sun Hill the next morning. The rain had got down the back of his neck, the cast was making his arm itch and he'd had a lousy night's sleep. Only stubbornness had prevented him from accepting Don's offer of a lift. Again, it was Kerry who took pity on him, found somewhere for his jacket to go, and got him a coffee. It was only when he'd finished it that he noticed the sign on the side of his desk.

'"DC Alf Ramsey." Sarge, was that you?'

Beech gave him such an innocent look that it was tantamount to a signed confession. 'Me, Michael? No.'

Boultan walked over to Mickey's desk. 'You got that form there, Mickey? Should I sign?'

'Yes, Sarge. Long as you remember that this is football football, not rugby football.'

'It's kick the ball into the net. It's not _difficult. _And by the way, don't worry about the sign. We bribed Jim Carver to put one up on Smithy's locker as well.'

'Oh? What'd that one say?'

'Sergeant Graham Taylor.'

Mickey and those nearby laughed, earning a suspicious glance off of DI Deakin, who had been talking quietly to Geoff Daly. Gritting his teeth, he seized his chance.

'Hey, guv, you going to play?'

Deakin _looked _at him. 'Some-one has to stay here and run the station, DC Webb. And I don't like football, anyway.'

'Okay. Sarge?'

Raising his voice to be heard over Beech's gagging noises, Daly declined. 'I play cricket, constable. Much more pleasant, less barbaric sort of game. And like the DI said, we've got to have some men here.'

'Moo-oo!' Deakin and Daly looked oddly at Beech, while the others, who were in the joke and always thought it apt, convulsed with laughter. Pretending not to know that they were laughing at him, Daly swept out of the room.

Similar scenes were repeated around the station for the next few days, and weeks, growing increasingly more desperate as the match got nearer.

'I am not having Jim Carver in the team, Dale.'

'Why not?'

'He's a boozer. And I for one intend to go and get smashed after the match.'

'So?'

'And he's overweight.'

'And?'

'He used to be in CID. He can go and play for them.'

'I'm the manager, Matt. My decision.'

'And my decision, Smithy, is that if he plays, I won't. Deal?'

They locked eyes for a minute, and Smithy backed down. 'Alright, have it your way. Just go and find me a replacement for him, would you?'

'Hey, Danny, you wanna play for me? When I'm out this cast, o' course.'

The black DC blinked slowly and looked at Mickey. 'Why?'

'Because that bloody hairstyle of yours means that you can head anything, I bet. And you're fast. And I need a couple of subs. And you're here, and you haven't signed, and I've signed everyone else who's here at the moment.'

'Mickey, how many cups of coffee have you had this morning – so far?'

'Uh – a few.'

'Well, lay off them. When you've stopped bouncing around like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, then I'll sign.'

'Hey, thanks!'

'Sod off and let me do this in peace.'

'Sarge?'

'Mmm?' Boyden couldn't find anything more coherent to say; Vicky Hagen was nestling alongside him, running her fingers through his hair. The drinks they'd had had left them both smiling sloppily at each other. 'I think Matt'll do for now.'

She moved slightly, so she was gazing into his eyes. 'What's this about the five-a-side, Matt?'

Boyden grunted; that was not the question he'd been expecting. 'We're playing CID when Mickey Webb's fit again. Smithy's in charge.'

'I know that. Is he going to be ever so modern and let women play?'

'Why?'

'Because, with respect, I could outplay any of you lot. And I'm a cracking striker.'

'_You?'_

'Mister Charming.' She tugged, not too gently, at a lock of his hair. 'Can I play?'

'I don't know.'

'Can I?' There was a sharp edge to her voice.

'Can you play, or what?'

'I play, or, or, you can go to bed by yourself tonight.' Her voice was full of amusement as she reached up to kiss him.

Mickey spent a long while trying to summon up the courage to ask Meadows. The big DCI was never less than kind, considerate, yet he was the only one of the superiors that Mickey felt he had to impress. But it was the non-stop fussing that Mickey couldn't stand. He eventually got his chance when he bumped into the DCI just going into the office. Hey, guv!'

'Mickey?'

'You want to play in the five-a-side?'

'Don's already got me to sign. Didn't he tell you?'

'No. When?'

'A week or so ago. I play midfield, if he hasn't told you. I hope you've got a sub?'

'Yeah. Two, if Rod plays.'

'Rod Skase? Him and Boultan, in the same team? I hope you know what you're doing of, Mickey.' Shaking his head, Meadows walked off.

Mickey stormed over to Beech, who was having hysterics in the corner of the room.

'Watch out, Mickey – big, bad, DCI about!'

'_Why _didn't you tell me?'

'Because it was so funny watching you psyche yourself up to face him.'

'Oh, shut up. I'll start you on the bench.'

Des laughed madly as he threw the patrol car around a corner so hard that the tyres screeched and a trail of rubber plastered the road. 'Way – hey!' He set the sirens blazing, jumped a red light.

'Uh, Des?'

'Yes, Reggiebabe?'

'Being late isn't enough – arrgh, slow _down _– to justify this.'

'Course it is.' Des leant forward into the car's movement. When they arrived back at the station and Reg was still staggering, he began to try and recruit him as a player.

'No, Des. Football is rather a rough sport, and with my back, it would be very difficult for me to play.'

'I'm older than you – I can play.'

'And I don't understand the rules for football. It's very complicated.'

'Reggiebabe?'

'Yes?'

'Come here.' He walked along to Smithy's office, knocked and went in. 'Reg would like to play for us, Sarge. Sign the paper, Reg.'

Smithy's mouth opened and shut. He'd only just recovered from a blazing row with Matt Boyden over Vicky, and loosing quite heavily. 'I asked him Des, and he said that he didn't know the rules.'

'Perfect. He can be our referee. Sign, Reg.'


	4. Goalkeepers

Match of the Day 4

Rose G

Mickey felt sure that he was going to go insane from the restrictions of the cast, even though he'd managed four weeks and had only a fortnight left to go. It itched, the break hurt and he couldn't reliably use his right hand. He'd also tried to put his arm around Kerry but had only succeeded in severely bruising the back of her neck. He felt that he really couldn't cope with Smithy bouncing around in the canteen.

'Got a team list for me yet, Mister Wengar?'

'Oh, very clever, Mister Hoddle. Very amusing. Do I sound French to you?'

Smithy sat down. 'No, but you do look like a weirdo. Who've you got?'

'Me. Beech and Boultan, Meadows. Danny Glaze. Rod Skase and Duncan as subs, I think. What about you?'

'Me. Des and – _don't laugh – _Reg. Tony as sub. Matt Boyden. Oh, and Vicky Hagen.'

'A woman? You're not allowed to do that, Sarge!'

'She forced Matt to force me into it. I have no idea what the rest of the deal was but he was insistent, I'm afraid.'

'_Really _no idea what she bartered?' Both men were sniggering.

'Lots of ideas, Mickey, none of which should enter the mind of some-one as young and as innocent as you!'

The brief conversation restored Mickey's temper to the extent that he was able to manage a smile for Rod and Duncan as they walked by him in the corridor and a civil greeting for Beech who fell into step with him as he walked into the main office.

'Hey, Mickey, you got everything else sorted yet?'

'What like?'

'Pitch, kit, ref, first aid, goalkeeping, food after the match, sorting out a date, anything else I may have missed even in my superiority.'

'Balls. What sort of an organiser do you think I am? We're going down the pub after the match – they can sort the food out. My mob said that I could use their five-a-side pitch that we use for training or the collage's got a nice indoor pitch all marked out. Either'd do.'

Beech nodded thoughtfully. 'Indoors'll be best. Not everyone's got a decent pair of boots.'

Mickey thought of something else. 'Oh, bugger.'

Concern flicked over Don's face. 'What?'

'Where the hell do you suggest that I get a pair of keepers gloves to fit Dunc?'

'Try a pair of those foam hand things that you see getting waved at rugby matches.'

Smithy was in a panic and trying not to be. He looked down at the signing on sheet again, trying to convince himself that Andrew Munroe would think that he was studying patrol sheets or something. The list still stubbornly read:

Uniform Football Team

- Me

- Matt Boyden (Anywhere but goal – too stiff)

- Des Tavener (Defence)

- Reg Hollis (Out the bloody way)

- Vicky (Up front)

-Tony Stamp (Not up front)

'I am not a goalkeeper. I am not a goalkeeper. I am not a flaming poxy keeper!'

Boyden stuck his head round the door then, looking for something. 'Anything wrong, Smithy?' He smiled at the other sergeant, then wandered in and started to search for the reports he wanted.

'No keeper. Would you do it?'

'I would but' – he stood up from his crouched position in front of the filing cabinet and his knees cracked – 'it'd kill me. Really would.'

'Vicky?'

'She wants to play up front. Let her – I need my peace and quiet these days.'

'Yeah, right. Send Des in when you see him.'

'See him? I'll get him now.' Boyden walked over to the door and yelled the constable's name as loud as he could.

Des sauntered up a few minutes later and looked at them both. 'All due respect – I ain't playing in goal.' Then he turned smartly and walked, almost marched off, grinning because he'd had the sense to listen to what they were discussing before he went in.

Smithy shrugged, then slammed his hand down on the desk. 'Alright…I'll do it.'

'That's the spirit.' Boyden clapped Smithy on the shoulder and walked off, limping slightly.

'Mickey, are those football notes you're looking at?'

'Please, Ker, don't tell Daly that I'm sitting here trying to get a referee. _Please.'_

'Better than you sitting there sulking. Anything I can do to help?'

'Don't think so. Unless you could sign these forms for me?'

'Why?'

'Meadows wanted them yesterday, and it'll take me forever to do them.'

She walked over to his desk, picked up the forms and sat next to him. 'Anything here got your signature on it?'

He rifled through his desk, found something that he'd signed before he'd broke his arm. 'Like that, Kerry.'

Grinning, she copied the signature onto the first of the forms. He could write – well enough to manage his teamsheets – but for the past five weeks, he'd had everyone dancing attention on him. She wondered whether he'd even noticed her assistance alongside Don's solicitous care and Rod's silent help. She stopped what she was doing for a while, looking at Mickey as he stared at his list of names.

Deakin won't do it. I need everyone else. Really, really need everyone else. Unless…Smirking, he called Jim Carver, and then another number. Kerry listened to his side of both conversations, saw the grin break over his face as he announced to the room at large 'We've got a referee! Frank Burnside's the referee!'

Mutters of approval drifted over, almost drowned out by Daly demanding to know how that was related to work. Mickey managed to ignore all that, just concentrated on Kerry's smile.

Smithy met Mickey and Don, who was still shadowing him, in the pub a week later. 'Plaster comes off tomorrow, right?'

'Yeah, thank God.'

'What you gonna do first?'

'Hit someone with it, I think. Maybe Geoff Daly or Deakin. Or sign my own forms.'

'When do you want to play the match?'

'Got it sorted already. Sunday week, over at the college, in their hall. Burnside's doing the reffing and the pubs' doing lunch.'

Smithy was taken aback by evidence that Mickey could actually organise something. 'What about kit?'

'I've managed to borrow the under 18's away kit, and the second team's home one, so we can use them, long as they get washed and back before next weekend. You just need to get your lot to bring trainers and shinpads. All organised.'

Smithy surrendered and brought the next round in.


	5. Match Day

Match of The Day 5 Rose G

Mickey woke up suddenly on that Sunday, trying to work out in his sleep filled mind exactly what it was that he was meant to be doing today. The match, bloody hell, the match!

He swung out of bed and dressed quickly, remembering the cast well enough that the freedom of movement pleased him. He dialled Don's number, was beginning to think that the old Sargent had already left before he picked the phone up.

'Don?'

'Mmmph.'

'Its Mickey. Are you ready for the match?'

'Ah-ah.' Don mumbled something that Mickey took as assent.

'What about John? Could you make sure that he's still on?'

'JOHN!' Beech's bellow made Mickey's ears ring. 'Right, he's getting up now. He stayed over for the night.'

'Did he? Uh - see you later, Don. And John. Bye.' Mickey dropped the phone as quickly as possible, trying not to follow that train of thought any further.

The doorbell rang then, sending him flying downstairs fast enough to have broken another bone, to answer it.

'Kerry!'

She looked radiant in jeans and a t-shirt, blonde hair scraped back into a pony-tail. 'Morning, Mickey. I thought I'd come and help organise you, see if there's any more forms you need signing, that sort of thing.'

Mickey smiled at her.'Well - could you carry some bags for me?'

'Bags?'

'Come in.' He stepped back and allowed her in. 'There, look. Kit an' a couple of balls, and first aid. And my kit bag. You know my car, don't you? Its just outside. Cheers.'

Kerry raised an eyebrow at him. 'And what're you doing?'

'Shaving, having something to eat and drinking some tea. I overslept. So'd Don - and John.'

'How'd you know about those two?'

'Phoned Don; he's been helping me. John was staying with him.'

Kerry, like Mickey earlier, abondoned that idea, and gathered some of the gear together, leaving Mickey to start shaving. And once the boot of the car was loaded, she made him tea and found some edible looking fruit for his breakfast. Mickey didn't know whether to hug her in gratitude, or wolf the food down.

Smithy was also flying around, even though he only had to organise himself and his team, not all the kit. A 1AM prank call from Des Taviner, who, judging by the noise had been in a nightclub of some kind had done nothing to calm his temper down. He'd lost one of his astro boots, and he was runnning late.

Burnside was lost. The Sun Hill streets had been extensivly rebuilt and changed to one way systems since he'd last been here on his own. Eventually, he gave up and phoned Jim.

'Kid, where am I?'

Patiently, Carver reeled off the directions to Canley College Sports Hall, and did the same again a few minutes later, after Burnside had believed that he'd found a shortcut and got lost again.

Glad that he'd been able to persaude Dave to cover for him, he headed off to the match.

Kerry drove Mickey to the match, pleased to find that only Jack Meadows was waiting to play,  
and Jim Carver was on the phone to Burnside for the third time that morning. Yelling at Kerry and Meadows to bring the bags, he jogged up the steps and signed them in. Today was his day; he was in charge and part of that was very definatly going to be bossing his DCI around.

Kerry gave him a quick kiss on the cheek for luck, then wandered over to the viewing gallery.

'Jack, take the kit bag and go get changed. Red shirts and socks for us. Not the number 3 shirt; that's mine.'

Meadows gaped at being bossed around by his DC, but Mickey just grinned and waved the mocked up manager's pass that John had made up, under his nose. 'I'm in charge, Jack. Chop, chop.'

He walked back over to the car park, greeting the others as they arrived.

'Mickey?' Burnside hollered over. 'Am I in the right place?'

'Yes!' Mickey and Carver answered in concert.

Burnside got out and walked over to Jim. 'Hiya, kid. Want to tell me what's going on? I couldn't get any sense out of Mickey, not that that's new or anything.'

Jim fell into step with the old DCI as they walked over towards the hall. 'Mickey and Smithy are what's been going on. Both of them convinced that they're the best at football, and they annoyed Beech so much that he got them to play a challenge match to sort it out. You'd best speak to them though.'

Burnside nodded and walked over to join Mickey and Smithy. 'Alright, lads what rules we playing under?'

Smithy jumped in before Mickey could even open his mouth. 'Standard five-a-side. No heading,  
no offside. Rollings subs and keeper. Twenty minutes each way. No-one to be sent off for swearing else I won't have anyone left.'

'I thought we were playing 45 each way,' Mickey protested.

'What, and kill Des and Meadows off? Be sensible.'

'Okay, shut up!' Burnside thundered at them. 'I know the rules anyway, so you two can run along and inform your mobs. Mickey, is anyone doing first aid?'

'Kerry. She's in the hall already.'

Burnside swung his kitbag over his shoulder and headed off to get changed.

'Mickey?'

'Yes, Smithy?'

'Don't go and get injured just so that Kerry has to run on and nurse you. Especially don't go and get a groin strain.'

'Oh, shut it.'

Smithy hurried over to the changing rooms, relieved to see all his players there already and their share of kit dumped on the floor, presumably by Mickey. 'C'mon lads. Everyone get changed, please.'

It was Boyden who challenged him. 'What about Vicky?' His arm snaked across her shoulder, but she stepped smartly away.

'She can get changed after us, in a minute.'

'Why should I? It's not like anyone's stripping off completely, is it? And if you did, I've seen bigger.' She tossed her head back, and picked a set of kit off the pile.

'Fine,' Smithy sighed in resignation.

'Eyes off, you lot! She's mine!' Boyden grated and turned to Vicky for approval.

'We'll discuss that later, Mathew. Look all you want, you fellows.'

'Just get changed.' Smithy sunk onto the bench and obeyed his own words, trying not to look at Vicky.

Mickey was thoroughly enjoying himself. His lot were changed and warming up already, although there had been a few problems. Rod had wanted a number 4 shirt, and had sulked when there wasn't one, Boultan had been whinging about everything, really, and Meadows had kept forgetting that rank was important today, but it was going well.

He smiled and broke into a jog alongside Don, the pair of them counting their strides as they led the first jog. Boultan was loping rather than running, a peculiar gait caused by his height, and to Mickey's everlasting suprise, Meadows appeared to know the drill as well as he himself did. Run, stretch, run, passing, the DCI could have led the warm up. Burnside, in full refereing kit, was kicking in with Duncan and Smithy, who were taking it in turns to block his shots. Smithy was taking a long while to regain his feet after each effort.

Boyden eventually chivved the uniform team out and tried to dragoon them into warming up, an idea that failed when Vicky got hold of the ball and started juggling it. Flick-flick, foot to foot, onto her thigh, flick, up to her chest, down to her feet again, with a smile on her face. He smiled, so entranced with her performance that he didn't even notice the others standing still, and wouldn't have cared if he'd done so.

'Rod, tell John to come and sit on the bench!' Mickey stepped away hastily as Rod went up to the ginger-haired nutcase, but still heard his outburst at Rod's request.

'Who put you in charge, you - you over-rated hairdresser?'

'Mickey did, actually, Sarge. Now come and sit down.' The smug joy on Rod's face was something Mickey would always remember.

Grinding his teeth, Boultan did as he was told. Meadows, aware of the age difference, made no complaints about keeping him company.

Swaggering, Mickey and Smithy led their teams out. Neither of them had been managers before; they'd not had time for a team talk and it was only five-a-side, but it was a football match and they were in charge, and that was enough. The two teams lined up, Burnside calling Mickey and Boyden up to take the toss as Smithy was in goal. They had to wait then for Don to find a rubber band to tie his hair back.

Jim, Kerry and the subs shouted 'good luck' to them. Mickey lost the toss, was pleased when Boyden left it as it was. Burnside blew for kick-off. 


	6. The Match

Match of the Day Cahpter 6 Rose G

Flick - flick - flick, pass, pass pass. Miss ball sprint with sobbing breath, slide into the tackle, crunch.

'Mickey, you stupid bastard!'

Help Des to his feet, wince at Burnside's blast on the whistle, stand back to allow the free kick. Shit. The ball's gone back to Smithy in goal, his long throw taking it halfway.

Vicky's got it now. Don's trying, God, he's trying and he knows what he has to do but his body won't do it. He turns too slowly, she's through, alone and shoots at Duncan. He's down, but to the wrong side. A foot gets to it but it goes through the posts and it's one -  
nil to uniform. Smithy's making an obscene show of celebrating in goal.

Play for a few more minutes, then Don twists to block Des and falls.

'Don, you alright?'

The old sergeant has got to his feet, staggering and then his leg crumples under him as he tries to put weight on it. 'No.'

Sling Don's arm over his shoulder, take his weight. Help him to hop over to Kerry and let Meadows on. Run back into the restarted game, recieve Rod's pass amd flick it on to Danny, who doesn't look and cannons sraight into Boyden.

The uniform man hoofs the ball across the width of the pitch, so that it lands sweet for Reg,  
who ballses it up. Nip in and get it, switch it to left foot, run with it. Collide shoulder to shoulder with the human rock that's Boyden and fall with the whole world spinning, then bounce up. Only his team matter now.

Mickey lost track of the game after fifteen minutes; the only clear point being their goal just before halftime. Meadows knocking it over to Rod, who dummeyed to his right, sent Smithy sprawling to the mat and then shot left. 'YES!' Hug everyone, screaming, then black out until the whistle.

He was tireder than he'd admit; he hadn't exercised anywhere near normal while he'd been injured and the uniform lads were fit and fast. Breath rasping, he walked over to the bench.  
Don was in agony, his ankle swollen and hot. Kerry was standing there, holding a half-empty can of freze spray and Boultan was pacing restlessly.

'You want to go have that seen to?'

'Mickey - you're manager. Go sort the team out. I'll sort my leg out. John, listen to him.'

Mickey nodded, gathered his team around him. 'Doing fine, lads. Jack, Rod, that was a good goal. We've lost Don - no way can he come back on, so Jack, you stay around. John, you come on for Danny in defence. Don't kick anyone too hard.'

Smithy, still smarting over the goal, tried not to show it as he spoke to his team. 'Reg, I want you off for Tony. Vicky, passing was invented for a reason. You do not have to beat everyone, okay? Let Matt have it occasionally.'

The rest of them descended into sniggering; it took Smithy a moment to work out what he'd just said. 'Grow up. Des, would you...?'

'Nope. Not in goal. I'm quite happy to mark Boultan, but I draw the line at playing in goal.'

Smithy growled at him and stalked down to stand between the posts of the other goal. His mob took their postions quickly, while Mickey's lot suantered over, drinking and pouring water over their faces. Boultan, a foot shorter than the others, swaggered.

Burnside blew again; Boultan miskicked the ball, slipped and cannoned into Rod who had been trying to share the kick-off. Mickey got the ball and lost track again.

Vicky almost scored, Dunc booting it away. Boultan began to kick the ball rather than the other players. Meadows and Boyden run for the same ball; Meadows getting outpaced, pretending to overstep and flinging himself to the floor in front of Boyden, who had to jump over him.  
Rod stole in and nicked the ball.

His arm hurt. Burnside rollocked someone for swearing. Des was blowing. Mickey was through on goal, racing, face to face with Smithy and he hit it low and hard across the keeper and CID were 2-1 up.

Des and uniform couldn't give up, with Smithy yelling and screaming at them. CID were played out, Meadows was too old for this. Des scored just before full time, sending Boultan crashing through the posts with the ball.

And it was a draw, 2-2, not really enough for Mickey but he was loving it. Burnside blew for full time. 


	7. Ater the whistle

Match of the Day 7 Rose G

'Well done, Mickey.'

'Cheers, Smithy.'

Still indulging in their fantasy of being pro managers, the pair shook hands with each other and then all round, even Don, who was sitting on the steps up to the gallery. Kerry abondoned her charge for a minute, came running over to Mickey and kissed him.

'Faugh. You need a shower, mate.'

Mickey gaped at her as she hurried back to her charge, aware that he was not only bright red but that Smithy was having hysterics at the look on his face. Burnside, diplomatic for once, chose then to wander across and speak to them.

'What'd you reckon, then, Mickey?'

'Oh, good game, ref. Seven outta ten on the teamsheet marks?'

'Isn't that "average performance, not recommended for promotion"?'

'Something like that. Maybe a six for continuing harressment of managers.'

'Call it payback for the way you used to get underfoot at Sun Hill.'

Mickey gave up; verbal jousting with Burnside could only ever have one result. Walking on air, singing inside, he gathered up the rest of the kit and queued for a shower before they adjurned to the nearest pub.

It could have been an everyday drinking session, except for Don sitting on a bar stool, moaning about his leg so that Mickey and John between them were dancing attendance on him. Except for Smithy loudly and repetativly demanding the return of his tenner as CID hadn't won, and Des speculating that maybe he wasn't too old for this, and did anyone know of a local veterans team?

The rest of the sights and sounds were more familar. Vickey curled up next to Boyden, half dozing, with the Sergeant's arm around her shoulders, and a half proud, half amazed look on his face. John, hovering near Don and moaning, about how unnaturally hard it had been and how many free kicks had been given against him. Everyone trying to avoid Rod, who had spent ages in the showers and was now seeking opinions on his hairstyle. And Kerry, gazing at Mickey with a look in her eyes that he finally understood even though he didn't do anything about it except smirk when Smithy caught his eye.

'Mickey?'

'Yeah?'

'Fancy a game of pool?'

'Yeah, why not?' Mickey dragged himself over to the pool table and picked out a cue. 'You wanna break, Smithy?'

'Nah. Best give you some sort of advantage, otherwise I'll just walk all over you and that won't be any fun at all.'

'I've actually won pool trophies, you know.'

'So've I.' Smithy grinned at him.

'You two!' Don's voice was rough with pain but vibrant. 'Just play a match - flip a coin for breaking - then we'll have CID v. Uniform for the rest of the night! Lay your bets now!' 


End file.
